


Lost and Found

by tollofthebells



Series: Art Trade and Gift Fics [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 11:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16597415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tollofthebells/pseuds/tollofthebells
Summary: The Inquisition is successful in their fight against the red templars, but when Letheia is unable to find Cullen in the aftermath of the battle, she fears for the worst.





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haloneshiral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haloneshiral/gifts).



> A birthday gift for my dear friend Proxi featuring her beautiful Inquisitor, Letheia Lavellan, and inspired by [her artwork](https://haloneshiral.tumblr.com/post/178479801489/letheia-never-has-the-opportunity-to-fight).

Her jacket is torn, her sleeves bloodied where she’d let her guard down during the fighting, but Letheia is numb to the pain. She has the bitter cold, the biting winds to thank for that but truly, _honestly_ , nothing distracts from her pain like fear. She hasn’t seen Cullen in hours. _Don’t worry about me_ , he’d told her, yelled at her over the shouting and the fighting and the deafening scrapes of sword on rock, steel on red lyrium, _I’ll be fine,_ but would he? _just look out for yourself,_ but how? _I’ll find you after_.

_He hasn’t yet._

Cassandra and Varric are far behind her now, sorting through the fallen templars, dust and red stone and corpses alike, for leads, evidence, information, anything of use to them but Letheia has only one person on her mind, and she pushes past the remnants of the fighting out into the open and endless expanse of white, ignoring the calls of _Inquisitor?_ and _Snow!_ from behind her. She thought she’d never see more snow in her life than she did when she first arrived in the Frostbacks but _Creators_ this blizzard is unending. She trudges on into the frost until the voices of her companions, Cullen’s troops, her _friends_ are far behind and the only sounds in her ears are the relentless whistles of wind and the echoes of a too-familiar melody in red.

 _I’ll find you after_.

She finds nothing but whipping winds and abrasive sleet that cuts into the exposed skin on her face and eats through the torn parts of her sleeves. But she presses on, in circles, even; she walks ceaselessly around the perimeter of the battlegrounds, calling out to him, calling his name, searching, calling. She can hardly see her own tracks where she walks; the snow’s coming down too fast, covering any trace of her—or anyone else.

“Cullen!” she calls out again. Her voice is growing hoarse, and in the distance she can hear Cassandra and Varric calling out to her still, _Inquisitor!_ and _Snow!_ and _Come back!_

_Not without him._

In the distance, _just a little farther_ , she spots something in the snow, a bit of red, _lyrium_ , she’s sure, and yet it’s so far from the rest of the dead templars that she presses on, a mix of curiosity and desperation winning over her trembling fingers and her cold, numb feet. The red becomes clearer when she approaches; it’s something soft, fabric, _cloth_ , crimson with gold detail and when her gaze locks in on a bit of fur trim, her heart stops. She _knows_ this.

 _Cullen_.

“No,” she breathes, whipping around, checking for any sign, any trace of him but there’s only white. “No,” she whispers again, blood pounding through her, “oh, no. Please, no.” She’s already lost so many, _too_ many, _please, not Cullen also_. She presses the cloth to her nose; it’s cold, but so is she—so numb she almost can’t smell his scent on the fabric, but it’s there, faded elderflower and a hint of oakmoss, musk, _him._ She inhales deeply, breath shaking, taking all of him in, willing herself not to exhale if it means she can hold onto him any longer because he could be—

“Letheia!”

Her heart pounds as she turns a second time, he's  _there_ , cold and numb and out of breath just like she is but  _he's there_.

“Cullen!” She runs at him, tripping unsteadily through the ever-deepening snow but it’s okay, he catches her, _he always will_. She buries her nose in the cold metal of his breastplate; any other time she’d admonish him for his uncomfortable armor, the way it makes hugs _just_ too stiff, but her nose is numb anyway, she can’t smell anything but the dry and bitter cold around her and there’s absolutely nothing that could stop her from holding him right now.

“I thought—” she chokes, but he stops her with a kiss, his mouth hot on her cold lips.

“No,” he assures her, “I’m here.”

“But I couldn’t—”

“I was searching for you, too,” he says. He kisses her again, this time on her forehead, before taking a step back, tilting her chin up to him, searching for any wounds, any pain. She notes the flicker of worry, the darkness passing over his amber eyes when he looks at her torn sleeves. Her wounds are shallow. Cuts, really. The blood is dried now but no amount of logic could erase the concern from his mind, she can see it written on his face; _It’s all right_ , she thinks, _I’m all right_.

“We should get back to the camp,” he murmurs. In all of the panic and relief, she’s forgotten the snowstorm raging on around them; she’s long since lost the feeling in her arms and toes, and only now that her heartbeat has started to return to a normal pace does she notice the aching in her heart has been replaced with a cold aching in her chest. She nods, _he’s right_ , it’s too cold and they’ve been exposed to the brutal snowfall for far too long.

“Your coat,” she says when he takes her hand in his. She’s still clutching it in her freezing fingers. But he shakes his head, _no_.

“Hold onto it,” he murmurs, taking it from her, draping it around her shoulders. “I think you need it more than I do.” His hands are trembling and Letheia knows that even in the absence of the bitter cold, they’d shake. The white around them gives way to red as they pass the fallen templars, bright and singing lyrium bursting from ground in spite of the snow. It’s relentless, persistent, enduring.

_But so is he._

* * *

 

There’s already a roaring fire—and several smaller ones—when they arrive back at camp. A few of the soldiers have erected lean-tos and tents, blocking out some of the snow and wind; someone by the fire is humming an off-key tavern tune and Letheia can smell _food_ , she’s not sure what it is but it’s heavenly, and amid all the warmth and the chatter and the music and the smells, she finally allows herself a sigh of relief. _We’re back. He’s safe, and we’re back._

Varric is unsurprised at the sight of their quiet return. “Never doubted you, Snow,” he says earnestly, tossing her a vial of green fluid, nodding at the minor wounds on her arms. “Curly, on the other hand…” Even Cullen cracks a smile at that, and that’s how she _knows_ how exhausted he is—no energy left to keep up appearances, only the thawing aches in his body and the tired relief at their safe return.

Cassandra pretends she wasn’t worried either; Letheia still catches her in a quiet moment of relief, eyes closed, a small prayer of thanks to the Maker on her lips when she thinks no one is looking. She afforded herself a sigh when they’d returned; now, she lets herself smile.

“Let me take a look at that,” Cullen offers, taking the vial from her cold fingers. He pulls her into one of the lean-tos, the one closest to the fire, and pops the cork out. “Elfroot,” he hums quietly to himself, motioning for Letheia to sit so he can kneel beside her. He lifts his coat from around her shoulders, muttering an apology— _he’s nothing to apologize for_ —as he pushes the sleeves of her jacket back to examine her wounds more closely. “Might sting a little,” he warns before applying the mixture. It does sting. But she’s too tired, too full of the warm relief bubbling in her heart to be bothered.

When he’s finished, he corks the vial again and picks up his coat, offering it to her once more.

“You wear it,” she murmurs, inching closer to him so she can rest her head against his chest. She closes her eyes, breathes in, _elfroot and smoke and_ food, she notes, _but maybe a nap first_. “It’s yours.”

He responds to that with a laugh she feels in his chest more than she hears, and she cracks an eye open to find him pulling the fur-trimmed fabric around the both of them. “Is this all right?” he asks her. His fingers still shake. The elfroot still burns into her wounds. But she closes her eyes, smiles, breathes in again, elfroot and smoke and food and elderflower and oakmoss and leather and _him_.

“It’s all right.”

**Author's Note:**

> With (gorgeous!!!!!) accompanying art by [fourtletterepithet](https://fourletterepithet.tumblr.com/). Teamwork makes the dream work.


End file.
